Sunday, February 28, 2010


I have this habit. I have a myriad of things to be reading,interpreting, and writing. But I have this habit, and I have this inability to focus, so here, so now, I write.


I've got a secret. Want to hear?

I own every Ryan Adams album he ever made.Including his beginnings in Whiskeytown and stint with The Cardinals. Seriously. Every one of them. At one point in time, I listened to them regularly. I knew them, I hid behind them.

Which brings me to the real secret;I have this quirk about artists and names--I don't remember them. At all. Period.
I may own their albums, know their music backwards and forwards, and the story behind why he wrote it, but out of context, if I hear Ryan playing all bucolic in the background, there's a 99% chance, I'll say, "hey, I like this song, who is it?"
This has elicited quite a few 'good-grief' looks from Laura--because she knows I know...But I don't, I swear.
It's a strange thing, memory.
I'm like this with books too. After a few months, I'm content if I can remember the main character and plot. I'm flat out astounded if I can remember who wrote it. I may even buy myself a cupcake in celebration.

But this quirk, this annoying mind facet, never stops my brain from remembering every story a friend has told me, every lesson learned since I was 4, every phone conversation, middle name, birthday, and favorite color; Real people and their lives--I can remember.

And today, it irks me.

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